Define 'World'
by Tubular Fox
Summary: He was told, once, that the world was a beautiful place.


I know, I know. this is neither the Zombie fic nor the Hannah fic that I said would be the next things posted, but I was struck by inspiration and had to write this. It was commissioned by my sister, who requested a fic for this prompt:

"I think you are beautiful and I would like to kiss you. I could think up some clever lines, if you'd prefer. But I wanted to say that, first." Otherwise known as 'A Softer World: 319' (http:/ www. asofterworld. c o m/ index. php ?id=319)

Luckily, she liked it. And now I hope you do, too!

Disclaimer: These lovely boys belong to Mr. Nolan, not me.

* * *

He was told, once, that the world was a beautiful place. Half sarcastically, and the walls were spattered with blood and there were bodies on the floor of the people that he had killed. The electric hum of tension and fear thrummed through his chest and pounded in his ears until he could almost mistake it for his heartbeat.

_A beautiful place,_ she said, voice cracking under the strain of pain and age. _Really_.

And he cocked his gun and shot himself in the head.

He woke and left her there, still attached to the PASIV. He never worked with her again, because even though he was young, he was much too old to accept such a blatant lie.

**-ooo-**

It could be that they meet in Washington. Or, maybe, they meet in San Francisco, or Malaysia. In a coffee shop, the sharp sting of the roast covered by the sweet slide of cream. Or in a back alley, surrounded by the desperate and hopeless, always waiting for the scream of sirens or the flash of lights. Or in a grand cathedral, with the sunlight streaming down from stained-glass in waves, in starbursts flashing from brown eyes as they appraise him.

From across the table, across the cracked pavement, across the aisle.

But in the end, it doesn't matter where they meet, or, in fact, even _when_ they meet. They meet for business, and they do business, and they leave. The rustle of cloth as they go blends into the patter of beans in the grinder, is lost in the sobs of the weary, is an explosion of sound in the silent confines.

Nothing about that is important; it doesn't matter.

What _is_ important, the only thing that _does_ matter, is the brush of dry, slightly cold skin against his in the firm handshake, the name _Arthur_ slipping past the thin lips to mingle with his answering _Eames_, and the distinct lack of a spark as their eyes meet.

What is important is that they leave hating each other.

**-ooo-**

_The world is beautiful_, she said, eyes bright and laughing as he looked at her with slight disbelief.

_It is beautiful, because it is full of love_, she went on, and he shook his head with a small smile on his face. He could have believed her—he almost _did_—because who would know, if not her? She had just gotten married, was planning a family. Certainly, she would know.

_You disagree?_ She wanted to know why, like she always did, the question shining from her dark eyes like the sun off fresh snow; bright and wonderful and inescapable.

In the corner, Arthur watched silently, as much the stone as his name implied. Waiting.

Looking away from the point man, he laughed and shook his head again. _In truth, there is nothing I find beautiful in this world_, he confessed. _It is my job to fake love, to fake faces, to copy and understand everything that makes the people of the world unique. Nothing is beautiful._

And she gave him a small smile and said, _You will find it someday_.

And he almost believed her.

But years later, she died. She threw herself out a window, for love, and he watched Cobb's face go dark, and grieved, and changed his mind.

**-ooo-**

He teases Arthur every time they meet. He has never liked the point man; too put-together, too confident, too organized, too perfect. Arthur never has fun, never seems to enjoy life, and Eames can't stand that.

He wants Arthur to think the world is beautiful, because he himself _cannot._

So every opportunity, he presses—_Darling, sweetheart, pet— _until shoulders tense and teeth clench and glares sear the air between them, but for some reason their hands are warm when they meet.

In Prague, they take a job together.

**-ooo-**

_The world is beautiful,_ Cobb said, watching his children as they played on the swing set; eyes squeezed shut and mouths stretched wide in happy laughter. Their hair was sun-bright even with the dark clouds that eclipsed the blue above them.

_How can you say that?_ He wanted to know why, like he always did, cynical as he off-handedly practiced the mannerisms of the young father three benches away from them. He had always been good at nervous energy, at worry.

_Because even though Mal is gone, she lives on in my children, and that is beautiful_, he was told. _One day, I think you'll understand._

And he thought of angry dark eyes and neatly pressed suits and wondered why he felt like he might.

**-ooo-**

In Prague, things change.

In Prague, they are stuck together until they have torn each other open and sewn each other back up again; midnight conversations stretching on in glances long after the words have stopped.

In Prague, he says _Darling_ less and means it more.

In Prague, the suits are a little less starched, and so is the man—a hand cards through dark, slicked back hair in frustration until the strands stand as if electrified, until Arthur is no longer perfect.

In Prague, they nearly die together, the glass of the window raining down after them as they scramble down the street, checking over their shoulders until they are safely on the train and miles from the station.

In Prague, Arthur throws his head back and laughs.

In Prague, Eames thinks he might just understand what Cobb and Mal meant.

**-ooo-**

_Isn't the world beautiful?_ She asked it with her head tilted to one side, examining the existence she had created; a maze of cardboard and paper. Her smile was soft as she looked up, hair dyed auburn in the light of the setting sun.

_Is it, Ariadne?_

_It is,_ she answered. _Everything. It's all so beautiful_. Wondering eyes bored into his until he shifted them away, over her shoulder, to where the clean line of Arthur's back and the soft, pale skin were lit with amber glow.

_Oh, I don't know, Ariadne,_ he said.

_You don't agree?_ She sounded surprised, or maybe confused.

And he thought of that steady back pressed against his, solid against the sudden and unpredictable, and smiled

_I guess it depends on how you define 'the world.'_

**-ooo-**

In Georgia, they fight explosively, too close to something real that neither one wants to face then—or ever.

In Georgia, they wonder how they got here; how they went from coolly repressed distaste to lighting fires under each other's skin.

In Georgia, Eames finally realizes that Mal was right: the world is beautiful because of love.

In Georgia, Arthur gets shot and the world crumbles.

**-ooo-**

_Do you think the world is beautiful?_ He asked the question of the motionless body in the bed, waiting for an answer though one wasn't forthcoming.

_I never thought so, you know. It was never a good place to me. My father was a right bastard, my mother too nervous to take care of me _or_ herself. Then you get into this line of work, and you do things no one else can, but it's not real. The world comes crashing back, horrible and unending, but wiping away the bodies you've left behind._

Arthur's hand was cold and dry in his.

_Darling, I need you to say something. Anything._

**-ooo-**

In the hospital, Eames sits by the bed with one hand wrapped around Arthur's, the other over his eyes.

In the hospital, Eames tells Arthur everything he has come to realize, to treasure: the skies in the point man's eyes, the plains of his back, the wind of his breath, the sun of his smile.

In the hospital, Eames takes Arthur as his world.

In the hospital, Arthur says nothing, the beeps and whirs of the machines the only answer to Eames's despair.

**-ooo-**

_You are my world_, Eames said, forehead pressed to Arthur's as they stood outside, backs to the hospital. _I think you are beautiful and I would like to kiss you._

Arthur's eyes widened, and his eyebrows rose. He took a step back, just one, and regarded Eames with confusion and apprehension; assessing, calculating, scared.

_I can think up some clever lines, if you'd prefer._ Eames's voice was low, sincere as he very gently laid a hand on Arthur's cheek. _But I wanted to say that, first._

And day dawned in Eames's world as Arthur smiled and laughed and brushed his lips feather-light against the curve of Eames's jaw.

_Then what are you waiting for?_

_

* * *

_

I hope you all enjoyed! I really loved writing this, because after reading some of knowmydark's beautiful work over at LJ, I was inspired to write something flowing, and pretty. I hope I accomplished my goal.

Oh, a little side note here: I found two definitions of Arthur; stone and bear. I liked stone better. So there.

I have to get back to brains, blood, and gore, but **please review!**


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